The Perseid Collapse (The Perseid Collapse Series 1)

by Konkoly, Steven

  “Shit. Here we go,” mumbled Charlie.

  Alex turned to face him. “Feel free to weigh in on a decision once in a while.”

  “These are your kids,” countered Charlie. “The two of you need to work this out—and fast.”

  “There’s nothing to work out! You heard what the cop said. Marines are running the show north of the Charles. How’s that gonna work when we get stopped in our most conspicuous vehicle? ‘Just driving a car full of military grade weapons across the river. Nothing to see here, Sergeant.’ Add to that a million plus people staring out of their apartment windows, all thinking the same thing: ‘Wish I could trade this gun for a car.’ Then along comes a four-wheel-drive vehicle with Maine plates! You want to try to drive this thing all the way through, go for it. It’s your car. Just drop me off up here with my shit, and I’ll walk it. Switzerland back there can stay with you if he wants a bullet in the head. Sorry to force you into a decision, Charlie.”

  “Charlie?” asked Ed.

  “Yes?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t think this is my—”

  “Bullshit, Charlie. You’re making it worse by not weighing in,” said Ed.

  “I agree,” said Alex.

  “First time we’ve agreed in a while,” said Ed. “Charlie, we’re coming up on the turnoff. I know you have an opinion.”

  “You sure you want to hear it?”

  “Yes,” both Alex and Ed responded.

  “We need to hide the jeep, even if it means walking an extra mile or two to make sure it won’t be found.”

  “All right. We ditch the Jeep in the reservation,” said Ed resignedly.

  “The turnoff should be right—there,” said Alex, pointing at a granite slab etched with “Sheepfold Middlesex Reservation.”

  Ed turned the Jeep and edged forward, clearing people out of the way. A few fists pounded the hood in protest, but nothing serious materialized as they forced their way through the refugees.

  “Chandler Road should be on the left, just after the turnoff for the parking lot. Anyone following us?”

  “Negative,” said Charlie.

  Alex handed him the binoculars. “Make sure.”

  “All it’ll take is one downed tree on this road to stop us,” said Ed. “There’s no room to go around.”

  “Most of the trees we’ve seen down are smaller than this,” Alex said, failing to hide the doubtful look on his own face.

  Chandler Road ran east/west from the parking lot to the reservoir, following the same directional axis as the air blast. Any flattened trees should land within the forest. Alex was more concerned about the eight-hundred-foot north/south stretch along the reservoir, where an upended tree could fall laterally across the road, blocking them from reaching Middle Reservoir Road.

  Middle Reservoir Road was the only route he could find on the GPS plotter that could take them west, deeper into the reservation. What were the chances that an eight-hundred-foot north/south-oriented section of road in the middle of a forest preserve would be clear?

  “Up there,” said Alex, pointing toward an unmarked dirt road. “Watch the road behind us, Charlie. If anyone appears while we’re turning, we have a decision to make.”

  “We’re clear,” said Charlie, as the Jeep squeezed onto a tight path cut through the trees.

  “This is a road?” asked Ed.

  “That’s what it says. Shit. Can you get by that?”

  “Looks like it,” said Ed, pulling the Jeep as far to the left as possible without clipping the side mirror on a tree.

  Jagged branches scraped against the passenger side of the Jeep, snapping and cracking as Ed coaxed them past a massive, torn branch. A ruler-sized piece popped into Alex’s lap.

  “Dead?” he said, snapping it with little effort.

  “Root system looked fine. Shallow, but healthy,” said Charlie.

  Alex examined one of the pieces more closely, rubbing it between his fingers. “I think this was singed,” he said, passing it back to Charlie.

  “I don’t know. But it’s definitely dried out,” Charlie said, sniffing it. “Smells a little smoky.”

  “Everything smells like that. Right or left at the reservoir?” asked Ed.

  Alex looked up at the calm, glittering water ahead. “Left. This has to be damage from the blast,” he said, holding up the branch. “I don’t see any leaves on the ground—anywhere. I bet the leaves burst into flames from the initial flash, and the air blast extinguished the fires a few minutes later, like when you blow out a candle.”

  “Look at the bushes. Totally fine,” Ed noted.

  “The treetop fires would be caused by thermal radiation. Like a sunburn,” said Alex.

  “A really bad sunburn,” said Charlie.

  “SPF 1000 bad. The radiation only lasts for milliseconds, so the leaves probably blocked most of it from reaching the ground. I bet we’ll find some burnt spots where the trees thin out,” said Alex.

  “I think this is the end of the road,” announced Ed.

  The Jeep stopped in front of a one-and-a-half-foot-diameter tree trunk raised two feet above the ground—pitched perfectly across the ten-foot-wide dirt path. The top of the tree lay in the calm.

  “No problem. We can get this thing out of the way in a couple of minutes unless it’s jammed in the trees on the other side,” said Alex, hopping down from the Jeep.

  Charlie winced. “We should have brought my chainsaw.”

  “I thought about it. Charlie, keep an eye on the road behind us. Ed, I’ll need your help.”

  “Got it covered,” said Charlie, pulling his rifle out of the pile stuffed under the blanket.

  Alex walked to the back of the Jeep with Ed and opened the rear gate. He moved the red gas containers and dug underneath the blankets. His hand emerged holding a thick coil of royal blue boating line.

  “I just hope it can handle the strain. We’ll have to go really easy.”

  They tied the thick rope around the tree at the closest point to the water’s edge.

  “We tie the other end to the bumper and ease the Jeep back as far as we can go until the line starts to slip,” said Alex. “You’re driving.”

  “I’m always driving,” said Ed.

  Ed kept the Jeep’s motion smooth, pulling the tree slowly. The tree resisted initially, as it broke free from the reservoir’s muddy grip. Alex gauged the strain on the line, guiding Ed with hand signals. When they had finished the first round, the tree lay mostly in the road, branches aimed at the Jeep. Ed craned his head into the passenger seat to gauge their effort.

  “I still can’t get through without flipping this thing into the reservoir,” he said.

  “We’re not done yet. We’ll wrap the line around the thickest tree we can find on the left side of the road—”

  “Pulling the tree from a different angle,” finished Ed.

  “Elementary, dear Watson. Elementary—in theory,” said Alex.

  Ed smiled for the second time Alex could recall today.

  “We’re gonna make it,” stated Ed, nodding gently.

  “Still have a long way to go—but yes. I don’t see anything stopping us.”

  “I wish I had more of your optimism,” said Ed.

  “I’m just better at ignoring reality,” said Alex, slapping his shoulder lightly.

  Chapter 34

  EVENT +35:47 Hours

  Acton, Maine

  Eli Russell’s feet hit the pavement before the pickup truck had skidded to a halt. Dave Connolly, a grizzly, two-hundred-twenty-pound barrel of a man, rushed toward him.

  “Eli, you don’t want to see this. We’ll get to the bottom of it. I promise,” he said, holding up two hands.

  “Touch me and I’ll kill you, Dave. Everyone! Out of the fucking way,” he said, parting a crowd of sweaty, MultiCam-clad militia.

  “Who moved the fucking bodies?” he said, addressing Connolly.

  “Nobody moved nothing, Eli. This is how we found ’e
m.”

  “None of us touched shit,” added the man closest to the pile of bodies.

  “Nobody fucking asked you!” barked Eli, pointing a finger at him. “Get control of your men, or I’ll find someone else to run your squad.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, stepping forward. “Buddy, move them to the other side of the street, and wait for instructions. No dicking around over there.”

  “Do you want them in formation on the road?” asked Buddy.

  “Just get the fuck out of your commander’s way!” yelled Connolly. “Sorry about that, sir.”

  The gaggle of AR-15-cradling Maine Liberty Militiamen scattered out of Eli’s way, exposing the scene. Lifeless eyes stared skyward, barely visible under a shifting layer of flies. Two of the bodies lay side by side, pulled halfway out of the blood-caked mound of twisted limbs and contorted faces. The sharp smell of feces permeated the humid air. Eli approached his brother’s body. His fists clenched. A faint, gravel boot print appeared on his brother’s right cheek.

  “Nobody touched my brother?” whispered Eli.

  “Nobody. I was with the first group here. Sorry, Eli. I don’t know what to say,” said Connolly.

  “You don’t say another word. That’s what you say,” he whispered, fixated on his baby brother’s gore-covered face.

  Jimmy had been nothing but trouble from an early age, spending a solid chunk of his life locked up in one of the state’s correctional facilities. Eli had spent the same amount of time trying to keep him out. He’d always been a good kid with bad ideas. Really bad ideas—which was why he’d been the perfect choice to run the Milton Mills operation. The militia needed vehicles, lots of vehicles, but they couldn’t go around confiscating them from the constituency. Not yet.

  Selling safe passage across the border to fleeing motorists had been Eli’s brainchild from the beginning, along with a few other flashes of genius. He’d dispatched Jimmy’s special-missions platoon on two missions within hours of the blast.

  First priority was to barricade the crossing at Milton Mills with a skeleton crew. Traffic would be light for most of the morning, as people struggled with the decision to abandon their homes and flee north. The vehicle-snatching operation could afford a short delay while Jimmy personally handled the second task: a series of targeted assassinations focused on the York County sheriffs assigned to patrol western York County townships.

  Three of the deputies had been caught at home, stranded without a vehicle. The fourth died in a gas station ambush, sprawled over a map he’d been examining with three good citizens of West Newfield. Jimmy stuffed the four bodies in the trunk of the cruiser, driving it to one of their secure locations. You never knew when a York County sheriff’s car might come in handy. Jimmy was always thinking, which was why Eli liked having him around. Sometimes that thinking got the better of him, which appeared to be the case today. Or was this something else? He couldn’t tell yet.

  “How many of Jimmy’s platoon were killed?” he said, walking toward the nearest bridge guardrail.

  “Five here. Three on the other side. Two in the middle. One along the riverbank down there,” said Connolly, pointing across the street. “Looks like he was knocked over the side. Eleven in all.”

  “No sign of the twelfth guy? He had six on each bridge. I know that for a fact,” said Eli.

  “We’ve looked everywhere. The twelfth guy could have washed downriver if he went over in the middle of the bridge. River’s pretty high from the rain.”

  “Or he was taken prisoner,” said Eli.

  “Prisoner?”

  “Look around you, Dave. This wasn’t the work of a rival militia group or band of locals. Only a military Special Forces unit could pull this off. They bottled up Jimmy’s people on one bridge somehow and hit them from both ends. Fucking shooting gallery. We’ll probably find the survivor gutted by the side of the road somewhere up the road, tortured to death for every last bit of information about our militia. Jimmy probably gave them a good fight, gave them some wounds to lick. I’d want to know everything about the Maine Liberty Militia too. We’re up against something sinister here, Dave, and the government is behind it. No question.”

  “Shit. Should we even be here?” he asked, glancing around.

  “They’re long gone. In my experience, they shoot and scoot. No way they’d stick around after a gunfight like this. Get your squad to work loading up the bodies in one of the pickup trucks. Not mine. Bring them back to Shapleigh, and take the back roads. We’ll do a proper burial with full honors when I get back. I have a few things—”

  A blaring horn disrupted his sentence, snapping his head toward the bridge. A white sedan crept forward along the bridge, twenty feet from Dave Connolly’s squad of disheveled, pathetic miscreants. Buddy unenthusiastically waved the car off, turning his attention back to a lively conversation among his squad mates. The driver laid on the horn again, this time fully ignored by Connolly’s men. Eli’s right eye twitched once, and he walked calmly over to the mess of men Connolly called a squad.

  Buddy never saw the butt stock that collided against his right cheekbone, shattering half of his face. Mercifully, the trauma caused by the impact switched him off like a light bulb, and he never felt any of the repeated strikes that crushed his head to a pulp between the pavement and the rifle’s composite plastic.

  Eli heard the car shift gears and tear into reverse, squealing its tires. He raised his AR-15 and centered the ACOG scope’s reticle on the driver’s head. Blond hair, woman. He fired methodically, exploding the windshield as he walked across the bridge. The back of the car veered left and hit the guardrail, blocking the road. The engine revved desperately as Eli changed magazines and flipped the selector switch to fully automatic.

  Voices screamed from the car, followed by frantic movement in the back seat. He drew even with the side of the car and fired an extended burst through the rear passenger window, momentarily intensifying the shrieks of panic. He switched back to semiautomatic and fired three rounds at the lowest exposed point along the driver’s right leg, putting an end to the wild engine acceleration. He noticed that the back driver’s-side door was open and listened for several seconds. A low sobbing sound competed with the idling engine. A little hide and seek? Oh, this could be fun.

  “One, two, three. Here I come. She’ll be comin’ around the mountain when she comes,” he said, walking around the hood of the car. “She’ll be comin’ around the—”

  A woman in white shorts and a purple blouse exploded into view, hurling herself over the side of the bridge before he could shoot. By the time he reached the guardrail, her body had been whisked thirty feet downriver by the rushing water. He fired rapidly, using the white geysers of water caused by each projectile to guide his aim, until one of them erupted red. She was done. He turned his attention to the car. The few intact windows were splattered red. Perfect. Eli wrenched open the driver’s door and pulled the woman out by her sticky, crimson-matted hair. She spilled onto the street. That should be enough to keep traffic off the bridge.

  Eli Russell stood up and approached Dave Connolly’s squad. “Form them up in two ranks for a promotion ceremony.”

  While Connolly’s men fell into place, Eli changed magazines and shouldered his rifle. He nodded at Connolly and turned to face the squad, noting the look of sheer dread on their faces. He kept searching until he found what he needed.

  “Mr. Connolly. Third man from the right, back row. Who is he?”

  “That’s Jeffrey Brown, sir. One of my best.”

  “He’s just been promoted,” said Eli, drawing his pistol.

  “To what position?” said Connolly.

  “Squad leader,” said Eli, firing a bullet point blank into Connolly’s head. “Eyes forward. Nobody looks at that piece of trash again. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir!” they yelled in unison.

  “No more happy horseshit in this squad, Mr. Brown. Am I clear?”

  “Clear, sir,” said Brown, staring str
aight forward at a point in the distance.

  “Front and center, Mr. Brown. This is your squad. Get these bodies loaded up and back to Shapleigh.”

  “Yes, sir. Permission to speak, sir?”

  “Better be good,” growled Eli.

  “Can I assume they go in the river?” said Brown, nodding at his dead squad mates.

  Eli chuckled and patted the young man on the shoulder. “And anyone else that ain’t militia material,” he said. “Get it done, Brown. And get it done fast. The fewer people that see us here, the better.”

  “Yes, sir. No witnesses,” said Brown.

  Eli smiled. “Looks like I picked the right man for the job.”

  Eli cocked his head and put a hand to his ear. A car approached from Foxes Ridge Road.

  “Ambush positions, both sides of the road!” barked Brown.

  When the men didn’t move, he physically pushed half of the remaining ten men to the shoulder of the road next to the shot-up sedan. “Cover and concealment. Lock it down!”

  Eli led the rest of the men to the downslope beyond the opposite shoulder, taking the position closest to the three-way intersection connected to French Street.

  “Wait for my command!” he yelled to Brown, who had his hands full positioning his men.

  A silver SUV careened into view a hundred yards away, squealing its tires.

  “Stand down! Stand down! It’s one of ours,” said Eli, jumping up onto the shoulder.

  Brown followed his lead, waving his arms and rushing into the middle of the road. The right man indeed. By putting himself between the oncoming vehicle and his men, he took the extra step to prevent a blue-on-blue engagement. Eli joined the new squad leader and waited for the SUV to arrive.

  “You have prior military experience, Brown?”

  “Yes, sir. Five years in the army. Went in right after the pandemic. Left as a sergeant,” said Brown. “Heads up, sir.”

  The SUV stopped inches from Eli Russell, but he didn’t flinch or betray any sense of apprehension.

  “Sounds like a perfect match. Connolly never said a word about you being a sergeant. Now I know why. Get your men to work,” he said, returning Brown’s salute.